Summary: In the movie, Balthazar explains that Merlin cast a spell to make him live long enough to train the Prime Merlinian. This story gives a different take on how Balthazar got his long life. Based on the song "Witch of the Westmorlands" by Stan Rogers. (there are several spellings of Westmorlands, I have chosen the most common, also the one on Amazon)
Warnings: Smut, AU (kinda), OCxBalthazar (again, kinda, this will be explained), gender-confusion (sorta, kinda, maybe?)
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"Find my apprentice." The command still echoed in Balthazar's mind long after Merlin had drawn his last breath. That had been six years prior, and Balthazar had searched the English countryside ever since. As he scanned the surrounding hills for a village, he might have to cross the waters to France, and possibly beyond. His eyes caught a trail of smoke from a nearby moor, and he turned his stallion towards it. The stallion's red mane rippled in the late afternoon breeze, and Balthazar patted its neck as he nudged it into a trot. The smoke may only be from another traveler, but perhaps he could get directions to a village.
Balthazar had never traveled the northern lands, except for brief missions for Merlin. After a fortnight without finding a village or sign of habitation, he was beginning to regret exploring the land of the Celts. He neared the plume of smoke quickly, and felt the breeze die down as he entered a more wooded area. Something sent a shiver down his spine, and he began to suspect he would receive better information from the trees than follow the smoke. Before he could make up his mind, the trees thinned and revealed a small pasture with a crystal-clear pond. Beside the pool stood a coach, but Balthazar saw neither hide nor hair of the horses needed to move said coach.
Crouched beside the pond was a figure in a thick, black cloak. The smoke came from a pit between the figure and the coach, and Balthazar noticed the flames were a dark red. "Do you have the Grimhold, Blake?" the figure asked. "I'll trade you for it. Your life for the Grimhold."
"I could best you in my sleep, Horvath," Balthazar snarled. He rubbed his thumb over his ring and concentrated on the ground around Horvath. "You betrayed our Master, and it is your fault that Veronica is trapped within the Grimhold."
"I don't care about that stupid girl. She would have given away her powers for a 'normal' life, the simple-minded fool. No, I simply want to bring back my Mistress, the great Morgana," Horvath said as he stood and held out a quarterstaff. Balthazar couldn't mistake the glow coming from the end of the staff, and he released the spell he'd been forming. The ground opened beneath Horvath, making him stumble and misfire. A blaze of fire ripped into Balthazar's shirt and burned his shoulder. The horse shied away and nearly bucked him off.
Balthazar rolled from the horse, grabbing the rowan shield from the saddle. One of the rare materials that blocked magic, the shield was lightweight and durable. He raised it up to block his neck and part of his face, keeping his eyes above the shield and toward the other sorcerer. "Maxim, I know you were only drawn to Morgana because Veronica spurned you," he shouted.
"You know very little, Blake," Horvath snapped. "Give me the Grimhold." Balthazar rolled his eyes. It had been the same thing for the past six years. How Maxim Horvath managed to appear in his path, he'd never know, but the man was unwavering in his demand for the Grimhold. Balthazar felt the heat of the fire flare and he rolled to the side, creating a vacuum to smother the flames before they reached him. The burn on his shoulder made him stumble as it flared once more. "Do you like the new spell, Blake? Demon Flames, from the Celts. Crafty people, they are."
"Do you ever shut up?" Balthazar growled as he sent a wave of magic into the ground, making it become like liquid. He heard Horvath attempting to solidify the ground before he sank, but between trying to control the strange fire and keeping Balthazar in sight, it was a losing battle. Balthazar lowered the shield, risking getting hit by the fire, and solidified the ground just as Horvath sank up to his chest. It would be harder to maneuver the large quarterstaff in that position, and the fire was whipping back in forth in deadly circles. Balthazar went to get the Grimhold from his saddle-pouch, to finally seal the other sorcerer within its layers. When he turned back, Horvath and the coach were gone.
"I'll get the Grimhold, Balthazar. Don't think I won't!" Horvath's voice lingered. The man was a coward, but he was tricky and not to be taken lightly. Balthazar stayed motionless for a few moments, allowing the natural magic of the earth to flow over him. The pain in his shoulder was nearly unbearable as he mounted the stallion again. He thought of cleansing it in the pool, but he knew the water could simply be another of Horvath's tricks.
He kicked the stallion into a gallop and kept an eye out for a stream or lake. The trees opened again and revealed a field where crows were picking at the leftover grains from the harvest. Running along the field was a small stream, and Balthazar took the opportunity to water the horse and clean the burn on his shoulder. "The stream, cold and clear as it is, will not heal your wounds, knight," a voice said from above him. Balthazar looked up to see two black-robed figures standing on the edge of the field. The crows had either fallen or disappeared.
"I am not a knight; I was an apprentice of Merlin," he held up his ring. The two turned to each other and nodded in silence.
"There is one who can heal the wounds of spell-fire," one said in a coarse, creaking voice. "Not even the best healer will be able to staunch the spread of the fire's burn. Only one…"
"The Witch of the Westmorlands," the other finished in the same, creaking voice. "Turn your stallion till his mane flies in the wind. When the moon is high and your shadow travels before you, look for the brightest star."
"Turn your back to the star and head toward the hills, and you will find the Witch," the first finished. Balthazar was about to question them, but in a flutter of feathers and cloth, they had disappeared. He heard the cries of the crows once more, and knew some sort of ancient magic was at work. He turned the stallion until his mane fluttered, and he rode straight until the moon was high overhead. As his shadow passed over the saddle, he felt the burn flare again, this time consuming most of his shoulder and upper arm. Turning he spotted the North Star, blazing out from behind a thin cover of clouds. Ignoring the pain lacing his arm, he turned his horse and rode swiftly toward the hills.
"Why do you ride this way? And wherefore came you here?" a tired voice asked from the trees. Balthazar looked up to see a young woman in a pale dress staring down at him.
"I was told the Witch of the Westmorlands resided in these hills. I am told she can heal my wounds," he answered solemnly. The girl smiled softly, and a glint entered her eyes.
"She is within the glades, good sir knight," the girl said with a hint of laughter in her voice. Like the ones who had given him direction, she disappeared in a flutter of feathers before he could correct her about his status. An owl called out, breaking the sudden stillness of the night. Balthazar shook his head and started forward alone, leaving the stallion to feed on underbrush. He held the rowan shield aloft, and had pulled the sword from his satchel as well. Parting the trees, he was greeted with a large lake and in the center was a pale figure. Her back was to him, and her dark hair fell past her waist to pool in the water. The mass of dark hair made it hard to determine her shape, but she seemed thin, almost waif-like. She twitched when a twig snapped beneath his feet. Suddenly, instead of a maiden, there stood a great black horse.
"I mean you no harm, fair lady. I only seek the healing powers you are said to possess," he called out. The horse turned its head and fiery red eyes stared back at him. For a moment, neither of them moved, until the horse blinked and dove beneath the water. The witch resurfaced with her back to Balthazar again.
"Sheath your sword, and lower your shield. If you are here to be healed, you will have use for neither," her voice was decidedly masculine. Balthazar placed both the sword and shield on the ground and waded into the shallow water. The witch turned and Balthazar blinked at the young man before him. "Fair Lady, I don't think I've been called that before. Come, knight, and I will heal your burns."
"Why are you called the Witch of the Westmorlands if you are not a woman?" Balthazar asked as he neared the young man. Unlike his earlier assumption, the man was lightly toned with wiry muscles that glistened in the moonlight.
"It was the title given to my mother, and her mother before her. When she had no daughter of her own, my mother trained me in the ways of magic," he answered as he poured water over the burns. It stung, and Balthazar willed himself not to flinch away. "Remove your tunic and shirt so that I can make sure the entire burn is healed," the man commanded.
"But why not change your name to Warlock or Sorcerer of the Westmorlands?" Balthazar asked as he peeled the tunic from his back, followed by the faded shirt.
"Sorcerer? Me?" the young man laughed as his hands skimmed over the burn. "No, I know only spells of healing and shape-shifting, like all my mother and so forth and so on." He smiled softly. "I can tell that you could have healed these wounds yourself, Sorcerer." Balthazar stared at him, demanding to know how the young man had known. "My crows are very informative, the owl even more so." The guides, the young woman in the tree. "But what gave you away is the ring you wear. Every time I begin a spell, it flashes in recognition of my magic."
"It has never done that before," Balthazar pulled up his hand to stare at the gem in his ring. The young man chuckled and moved toward the shore. Balthazar found himself drawn to where the long hair tapered off just above the young man's thighs. "Why would my ring react to your magic?"
"Because my powers are limited, and spell-fire burns are very dangerous if not treated correctly. I used some of your own magic to finish my spells. If that disturbs you, I apologize."
"It intrigues me. Perhaps you can teach me some of your magic," Balthazar answered. The young man smiled softly and beckoned him forward. Using heather and golden rod, he bound the burn tightly. Already, the skin looked healthier and Balthazar gingerly touched his shoulder.
"I cannot give you the incantus that was given to me, but I can show it to you," the young man said quickly. He pulled a dark cloth from the trees, and Balthazar found he was strangely disappointed to see the creamy skin disappear. If the young man noticed, he made no mention of it. The cloth turned out to be a dark, blue cloak that was bound with a silver chain around the man's waist. He led Balthazar to a small meadow, and Balthazar saw that his horse was tied to a post beside the small hut that occupied the meadow. He wanted to ask, but he could feel the magic rippling through the air. A small fire warmed the inside of the hut, and Balthazar hung his wet clothes on the small bar in front of it. The young man provided him with a large blanket to shield himself from the cool winds that leaked through the hut's walls.
"Do you have a name? I do not think I can call you Witch much longer," Balthazar said as the other opened his incantus. The book was much smaller than the one Balthazar kept for his future apprentice, but Balthazar saw diagrams and spells he had never heard of before.
"My mother called me Davyn," he replied (1) . "But the creatures simply refer to me as the Witch." He handed the incantus to Balthazar. "Here is the spell I used to stop the spread of the spell-fire." Balthazar spent the rest of the night leafing through the incantus and learning several healing and shape-shifting spells. He told Davyn about his quest, and something entered the young man's eyes. He knew by now that the young man was not the next Merlin, but he definitely had the potential to be a powerful warlock. As the sun began to peek through the trees, Davyn closed the incantus and turned toward a pallet on the ground. "If you would like to sleep, you may rest here. I will retrieve your shield and sword and groom your horse, if you'd like."
"You have done enough already, lad," Balthazar said as he knelt on the pallet. "You look tired as well." In truth, he didn't want Davyn to leave his sight. There was something that drew him to the young man, more than Veronica had ever been able to. Davyn's hair hung down over one shoulder, and his pale skin peeked out from under the cloak he wore.
"There is one more thing I can do for you. Something that will help you in your quest," he said quietly. "It is a gift that my family can give only once." The sun peeking through the walls of the hut reflected on the blush that now tinted Davyn's face. Balthazar watched as he allowed the cloak to fall to his waist, revealing the pale, slender chest and light muscle tone. He knelt on the pallet and turned nervous eyes toward Balthazar. "If you…lay with one of my kind, you will become invincible and not even death will claim you until you let it." He bowed his head. "I understand if the mere thought repulses you…"
Balthazar silenced him with a kiss and pulled him forward, causing the cloak to flutter to the ground. Davyn was lithe and agile as he crawled into Balthazar's lap. Balthazar's fingers skimmed along the young man's spine until his hand rested on the pert ass he'd briefly glimpsed at the lake. He heard a soft noise as Davyn broke the kiss to rest his head on Balthazar's shoulder. As Balthazar dipped his fingers into the cleft of Davyn's ass, he found it was already slick with some sort of oil. He raised an eyebrow and turned questioning eyes toward the young man.
"When you told me of your quest, I knew I would offer my gift to you. I know how to prepare my body," Davyn said quietly. Balthazar groaned at the flush that covered the young man's face.
"Little minx," he growled as he stole another, lust-filled kiss. Davyn opened his mouth to Balthazar's questing tongue and whimpered as the fingers slid inside him. Balthazar swallowed the little whimpers and whines as he stretched Davyn and prepared him further. He crooked his fingers and was rewarded with a loud gasp. Davyn broke the kiss and arched his back as Balthazar rubbed the small bundle of nerves. "I think you're ready," he said as he pulled his hand back. Davyn pushed at his chest.
"You must lay down, or the spell won't work," Davyn whispered. Balthazar nodded and lay back, running his hands up Dave's thighs to grasp his hips. Davyn rose to his knees and positioned himself over Balthazar's cock. Taking the stiff organ in his slender hand, he steadied himself and began to slowly sink down. Balthazar groaned at the tight heat that encased him at an agonizingly slow pace. Just as Davyn was nearly seated, he thrust upwards, longing to be fully sheathed. From Davyn's lips spilled a slew of Gaelic that was so rapid, Balthazar couldn't make out half of it. He slumped over Balthazar's chest, and the older man felt teeth on his pectorals. "Stay still," Davyn commanded as he sat up. Balthazar rubbed soothing circle on the other's hips as he waited for him to adjust to the intrusion.
As Davyn began to lift his hips and slowly lower them again, he began chanting. Balthazar recognized it as an ancient form of the Gaelic the local Celts used. He didn't even try to comprehend the words because doing so would take away from the exquisite pleasure he was experiencing. Davyn's eyes were piercing as he caught Balthazar's lust-filled gaze. His pace picked up, as did the speed of his chanting. Balthazar felt himself slipping into the rhythm of the chanting and the rise and fall of Davyn's hips. It was not until shy lips gently brushed against his own that he noticed Davyn was splayed across his chest. The lips brushed against his once more, and he responded, suckling on Davyn's bottom lip, even as the chanted words vibrated against his mouth.
Davyn straightened and began to ride Balthazar in earnest, and Balthazar's hands grasped at the slender waist, trying to ground himself in the seemingly overwhelming wave of pleasure. He felt Davyn's hand on his own and he allowed it to lead him to the straining cock between the man's thighs. "Please," the plea was simple, but Balthazar could hear the pent-up emotion behind it. The chant seemed unbroken, if not intensified as Balthazar stroked Davyn to completion. The clenching of the muscles around his cock sent Balthazar over the edge as well, and his own cry of passion echoed the one that issued from Davyn's lips. The chanting ended abruptly as Davyn swept down and claimed Balthazar's lips in a kiss full of passion and fire. "Tha gaol agam ort," he whispered (2). It was the last thing Balthazar heard before sleep claimed him.
When he woke, the afternoon light streamed through the meadow, and it took him a moment to realize the hut was gone. He found himself, not on the pallet, but on his bedroll with his coarse blanket covering him. His clothes were neatly folded on a nearby stump, and as he pulled them on, he noticed the burned material was whole again. His shield and sword were propped against the tree where his horse was tethered, and he began to wonder if he'd simply dreamed it all. As he finished packing his things, he heard a rustling of wings and turned to see the girl in white.
"The Witch bids you farewell, and knows that one day, your paths will cross again. Until then, explore the lands to the East, where talk of a child with great power is said to live. Goodbye, Apprentice of Merlin," she turned to leave, but he stopped her.
"Why does the Witch not tell me this himself?"
She tilted her head to the side for a moment before smiling softly. "The Witch knows that you are not destined to live in these lands much longer, but the Witch has duties here which he cannot abandon. He regrets parting this way, but there is no other alternative."
"Then, I shall find him again one day, and please, young lady, thank your Master, the Witch, for his kind gift," Balthazar replied. He knew the words were true, but that didn't make the abrupt parting any easier. He swore that when his duty to Merlin was over, he would find the Witch again, no matter the cost. From the trees, a pair of dark eyes watched him climb into the saddle and disappear.
"You could have gone with him, young-witchling," the girl called up to him.
"We will meet again, in another time," Davyn sighed. "My place is here and now." He didn't allow himself to dwell on the matter as he turned back to the lake and waited for another innocent to seek his aid.
/Time Break/
Balthazar hadn't expected to be trapped in an urn for 10 years, but at least he'd found the Prime Merlinian. Horvath escaping the Grimhold was another setback, but he supposed he would have had to free him eventually, if only to get to Morgana. Not surprisingly, he was rescuing the Prime Merlinian from Horvath, although the wolves were a new touch. He quickly diminished the wolves' power and landed the metal raptor he'd taken from the Chrysler Building. For a moment, he thought he recognized the shocked face that turned toward him, but in the next moment, he was fighting off Horvath. He was too busy trying to keep a low profile and ward off the other sorcerer to really get a good look at his new Apprentice.
It was not until they had landed on the Chrysler Building again, that he got a good view of his new apprentice. Time seemed to stop and he saw a flash of long, dark hair in place of the rather messy array atop Dave's head. The features were identical, the same skinny body, the same voice, which was currently demanding to know "What the hell is going on?" For centuries, he had seen someone who looked like Davyn, just out of the corner of his eyes, and now, here he stood, the reincarnation of the Witch of the Westmorlands, the Prime Merlinian. Balthazar hoped that this time around, Dave would stay for good.
…THE END…
1) Davyn is the Welsh form of Dave, because I couldn't find a Scottish version.
2) "I love you" in Scottish Gaelic
A/N: Well, that was fun. Reviews help keep my muse happy, so I can write more.
Disclaimer: I own neither the song "Witch of the Westmerlands" nor the characters/events from Sorcerer's Apprentice. They belong to someone who isn't me.